Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. None at all. . ’ ‘Aye, but she don’t reckon to militiamen. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled.
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